Part 26 (1/2)

”More than likely,” was our hero's answer, for he had been in this part of the country long enough to have learned all that was known of the Ashantis and their ferocity. He knew that it was said that thousands were slain in cold blood every year in this horrible den called k.u.masi, and that the death of a king's son necessitated the slaying of at least two thousand wretched girls, children and men, to satiate the hideous Moloch reigning over the fetish house at the capital. And no doubt this poor fellow was one. d.i.c.k nodded to him and smiled, and at the sign of friends.h.i.+p the man rose and crept towards him till he crouched at his feet. Then he did a strange thing. He fumbled with his twitching fingers in the ma.s.ses of his hair, and finally produced a discoloured piece of linen.

”For the white chief,” he said; ”I have risked my life to bring it to you. These Ashanti men would have killed me as I came, and if they had captured me--”

The very thought of what might have followed unnerved the man, who was still suffering from the effects of his desperate efforts to escape.

His teeth shook while his limbs trembled. Then he seized our hero by the hand and clung to it as if his life now depended upon doing so.

”Who are you?” asked d.i.c.k, using the Ashanti tongue. ”Where do you come from, and why have you been pursued?”

”Look at the letter, chief. See the figures there and I will talk. I am an a.s.sim. I hate these cruel Ashantis.”

The native watched with eager eyes as the strip of discoloured linen was unfolded, and started back as if in terror as the white youth suddenly rose from the roof of the deck cabin to his feet and glared at the strip. It was an important missive, evidently, for he grew red with excitement, and gave a prolonged whistle of astonishment. Then he called in loud tones to Jack to come to his side. There was a tone of profound astonishment and relief in his voice, and he waved the strip of linen above his head.

”News!” he shouted. ”News at last! Look at the signature. Poor beggar! How he must be suffering!”

”Who? Who's the poor beggar? Is it one of the captives about whom there has been such a row? You know whom I mean. The Europeans for whom King Koffee demanded a ransom.”

”Yes; it is his latest prisoner,” was d.i.c.k's answer. ”Look here.”

He spread out the tattered piece of dirty linen upon the roof of the cabin and showed it to his friend. It looked as though it might at one time have formed a portion of a white linen handkerchief, or perhaps it was a strip torn from a man's s.h.i.+rt. In any case it had been pressed into the service of the writer of the missive for lack of other and better material; and the ink with which the letters were scrawled was in all probability derived from the diluted juice of some berry growing in the forest. They straggled across the strip, some large and some very small, all more or less blotched and blurred, while many unmistakably pointed to the fact that a pointed twig or some such primitive implement had done service for a pen.

”From Meinheer Van Somering,” said d.i.c.k, impressively. ”Poor beggar!

He is one of the owners of the mine, as I have already told you, and it was he who was attacked with Mr Pepson on their way down to the coast.

The agent whose place I took was killed at the first volley, while Meinheer capsized the boat. The last that Mr Pepson saw of him was as he plunged into the river. We thought him drowned, and he is, or was, a captive. Listen, and I will read.”

He spread the strip out once more, smoothing the many creases, and having again run his eye over the letters commenced to read.

”'For the love of Gott, help me, mein friends. I have made the escape from these terrible Ashanti men. I have come to the creek where was the mine, and, alas! there is no boat. All are gone. With me is one friend, a native, who make the escape also. He say he can find boat down the stream and make for the coast. He will try. Brave man! If he live, then he return with mein friend, and make the rescue. Mein word!

how I wait for him. Christian Van Somering.'”

It was a pathetic missive, scrawled as it was on this dirty strip of linen, and d.i.c.k's eyes filled with tears at the thought of the miserable condition of Meinheer. His face a.s.sumed an expression of determination, and he swung round upon the native with a question. So sudden and unexpected was the movement, that the man cringed to the deck again, and placed his hands over his head as if to ward off a blow.

”Have no fear,” said our hero, in the Ashanti tongue. ”Tell me all about this matter; how you came to meet the white man, and how you made your escape. Where is he living now?”

It was pitiable to watch the relief depicted upon the face of the fugitive as he heard the words. He knelt upon the deck and looked about him as though he could hardly believe his ears. He might have been a culprit who expected discovery at any moment, and who suddenly found that suspicion had pa.s.sed over his head and had settled upon some other individual. He sighed, stood up, and then began to answer.

”It is a long tale, but I can tell it shortly,” he said. ”I was in the village when the enemy came upon us, and with many others was taken prisoner. Here is the mark of the wound which I received as I endeavoured to escape. I was taken towards k.u.masi, the place where slaves are killed in the house of execution, and I knew that death was before me. Like many another I longed to effect an escape, and it happened that I succeeded with the help of the white chief. Yes, chief, he was a prisoner also, being dragged towards k.u.masi, and it was he who, as we lay side by side one night, bit through the las.h.i.+ngs which secured my arms and legs. Then I set him free and we stole away to this place where the white chief had once been. None suspected that we were there, and we had hoped to find another white chief at the mine, and boats in which to make down the river. But there was no stockade. The place had been burned, and the boats were gone.”

”How long ago is this?” demanded d.i.c.k. ”When did you meet the white chief?”

The native counted the days off on his fingers and thought for a moment.

Then he stretched out his hands and lifted his ten fingers into the air four times in succession.

”It is so many days, perhaps more,” he said. ”I cannot say. The days were so much alike. We lived in terror of our lives, for the enemy were on the river and about the mine. We hid in the forest, living on yams and plantains. Then the chief fell sick, and for a little while I thought he would die. But he recovered, and bade me go down the river with this sc.r.a.p of linen. He lies there near the creek, chief.”

”Yes, but that does not explain how you managed to make this journey,”

interposed our hero. ”How did you obtain the boat?”

”I stole it. At night I crept through the forest close to the water, till I came to the camp of the enemy. Then I searched and found a boat.

After that I fled, and the chief knows what happened. He saved my life.”